


He Ain't Heavy

by L_Morgan



Series: Mister Big [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 07:06:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L_Morgan/pseuds/L_Morgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Day After The Night Before. Though Greg would have loved nothing more than to camp out in My's spartan townhouse and demand an explanation, the real world beckoned....</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Ain't Heavy

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second story of a larger plot line; it won't make much sense read alone. Special thanks to Jadis for all of her encouragement. And thank you to Starslikedust for her generous beta (after the fact). I own nothing except the remaining mistakes - though I can always dream.

By the time Greg made it to the Yard, he’d moved from shock, through anger and rage, to find himself completely and utterly humiliated. If he had been ready to kill Sherlock before. Seriously? And My? What the fuck?

The only thing that had stopped him from taking “My’s” townhouse down from the ground up was the fact that a quick look at his phone revealed three missed calls. The first, not surprisingly, was from Sherlock. The last, also not surprisingly, was blocked, “Unknown.” 

It was the one in the middle that was the wildcard: his D.I., who was expecting Greg in his office by 9:00 - no excuses.

As it was, 8:57 saw him dashing through the maze of cubicles, evading the curious looks from the members of his team, and a low cat-call from Donovan, the newest rookie, who, despite her junior status, has turned out to be somewhat of a friend.

His fist struck his immediate superior’s door just seconds before the clock hit 9:00.

“Come in!” D.I. Wilson barked. 

“Good morning, sir,” Greg greeted, tugging at his jacket. “I just saw your message about an hour ago....”

“No apologies and never explain,” Wilson remarked, signing a form with a flourish. “Especially when you had 15 seconds to spare.” 

The older man looked up and winked. “Shows you’re a man not to waste time for the sake of appearances,” he said. “You know there’s nothing I hate more than people hanging outside of my office, when they have work they could be doing just so I’ll think they’re eager.” 

He started to look away, then ran his eyes over Greg’s torso. “You’re looking pretty sharp, there, Greg. Do you know something I haven’t told you yet?”

Greg blinked. “Sir?”

Wilson smiled. “Have a seat. You seem a little tense.” 

Greg tried to relax, before sinking down in the chair. “Sorry, sir. It was a...” He hesitated. “It was an eventful night.”

“I hear you’ve been tagging around with that kid who broke the Barrington murder.”

“I don’t know that tagging around with is exactly how I’d put it, sir.” Greg shifted, trying to get comfortable. “More like trying to keep alive - at least until Aronson and Tyler are locked up.”

Wilson leaned forward. “Well, that’s pretty much going down today.”

“That’s great!” Greg leaned forward and cleared his throat. “I mean, that’s good. Sir.”

“It is good,” the D.I. agreed. “In fact, it’s so good that I’ve gotten the news from upstairs that I’ve been promoted.”

“Really?” Greg rocked back, not entirely sure how to feel about that. He liked Wilson - he was a good D.I., fair and balanced, unlike some of the others. “Well, congratulations, sir.” He managed, finally. “You deserve it.”

Wilson waved him off. “A D.I. is only as good as his sergeants - you and I both know that.” He rested both elbows on the desk and rested his cleanly shaved chin on his fists. Do you know what they say about promotions in police work, Greg?”

Greg shook his head. “No sir, I can’t say that I do.”

Wilson laughed. “You know good and well that promotions and pasturing go hand and hand in this business.” He sat back up, puffing his chest out. “That’s why I like you Greg. You’ve got tact. Tact, discretion, and you’re not proud.”

Greg bit back a laugh. “Not sure that’s exactly a good thing, sir.”

“You closed Barrington because you were willing to listen to what most of us - myself included - might have viewed as an unreliable source. You also took a tip about the Carlson case that a prouder man may have overlooked.” Wilson met his eyes evenly. “And somehow, god only knows how, you deal with Anderson, even when no other team would have him - which makes my life a helluva lot easier.”

“Why, thank you, sir,” he said. 

Wilson looked around the office, his expression wistful. “The boys upstairs told me that I get to name my successor, Greg,” he said slowly.

Greg swallowed, barely daring to breathe.

“You like this office?” Wilson asked, motioning from one corner to the other.  “And I know that you know that I’m not just talking about these four walls or I wouldn’t be asking,” he said, his voice low. 

“I’m talking about the paper work, the late nights, the bad coffee, the Saturday interruptions, the cold cases, the petty squabbles on the team, the court appearances. I’m talking about the weight of all those victims pressing against your eyelids when you can’t sleep.” Wilson paused. “I guess what I’m really saying  - asking - is are you ready to spend your days and nights and weekends behind this desk, sending your people out to do the dirty work, all the while playing intermediary with the big boys upstairs, not to mention those wankers in the home office?”

“Are you offering me your job, Inspector?” Greg asked, thinking that this day couldn’t possibly get any weirder. 

Wilson smiled. “Who ever said that you weren’t a good detective?”

And for the first time since he’d checked himself out in My’s full length mirror, Greg’s face split open into a wide grin.

“So you accept, _Detective Inspector_ Lestrade?” Wilson asked, his eyes twinkling.

Greg threw back his head and actually laughed. “You bet I do, sir. I sure do.” 

 

Feeling decidedly less rested than he had in Wilson’s office, Greg had to use his hands to push himself out of the squat that he’d been in for the last twenty minutes,  where he’d been listening Anderson rattle on something about toxins and paint samples. 

He’d nodded and tutted in the right places, not sure what to believe given that all of that forensic shite tended to straight over his head. In fact, all he really wanted to know from all that was where Anderson’s wedding ring had gotten to and what the hell his intentions were towards Sally Donovan.

Speaking of, the rookie sashayed by, legs all the way up to her shoulders; her hair a curly black cloud trailing in her wake. “Freak’s here,” she drawled, jutting her chin over her shoulder. “Can I arrest him?”

Shutting out the sound of Anderson’s “righteous” indignation and overall hissy fit, Greg shook his head. “Leave it, Sally,” he warned, taking his time as he tucked his notebook and pen inside his suit jacket. 

He shot a look at a very disgruntled Anderson, who had already whipped out his camera and starting taking photos. “You have five minutes,” he said. “Then I’m letting him in.”

If Anderson bothered to respond, he ignored it. 

Keeping his gait steady, Greg walked over to where the police had cordoned off the crime scene. 

Sherlock, bouncing on his toes, was wearing the same clothes that he had on the night before. As Greg got closer, Sherlock’s eyes, dilated and bright, narrowed.

“What do you have for me?” he demanded impatiently. 

“How did you even know there had been a murder?” Greg returned, refusing to rise. “Who called you?”

“No one.” Sherlock pulled himself up to his full height. “It just so happens that I had come looking for you, when your former D.I. told me you were here.”

“What did you want?”

“To see that you’re alright, of course. But now that I have - _seen you_ , that is - it’s clear that you are...” His mouth twisted in a poorly disguised attempt to contain his amusement. “...perfectly well.” 

Greg blew out a breath he hadn’t realized that he was holding. “Yes, no thanks to you, you bastard. Who was he?”

“The victim?” Sherlock asked, all innocence.

“No,” Greg hissed. He leaned close. “One, you take my phone, my i.d., all my cash, and my wallet. Two, you give them to some random bloke who picks me up in an unmarked car - “

“With whom you decided that you should obviously, and immediately, have sex,” Sherlock all but sneered. “Given the recent state of your love life, In theory you should be thanking me, no matter how repulsive the idea actually is in practice.”

Greg held up his hand. “ _Who is he, Sherlock?_ I need a name.”

Sherlock chuckled; it was low and throaty and actually sent shivers up Greg’s spine. “Lestrade, you dog. You didn’t even bother to get a name?”

“Look.” Greg let his hand fall between them. “I don’t care what you think you know -”

“What I _think_ I know?” Sherlock looked offended. “I don’t think, I see. It’s obvious from the state of your appearance that you copulated with this so called random bloke, whose name you did not bother to acquire for yourself. If not, you at least spent a good deal of time out of that suit, which is the same one you wore yesterday, minus the grime and the week’s worth of wrinkles. And then there are the shoes, also the same, but polished for the first time since I’ve known you.” He paused, letting his eyes wander over Greg’s face.

Another knowing grin. 

“Would you like to hear about the men’s socks that aren’t your brand or the moisturizer that minimized your pores, for a change, unlike the cheap Tesco brand that you normally use? Or perhaps about the shampoo that comes not from some swank shop on High Street, but is only sold in one particular boutique in Paris?”

Greg could feel the telltale heat in his cheeks, but he kept his mouth shut. 

“Or would you rather I remark on the small _bruise_ underneath your jaw or the bespoke shirt - the color of which you would never select for yourself, but which sets off the undertones of your skin in a way that even _I_ find aesthetically pleasing?”

“How do you know that the shirt is bespoke?” Greg asked, knowing the minute that it was out of his mouth that was the wrong thing to ask.

This time Sherlock did sneer. “Did you really think that shirt - that particular shade, that particular quality, and that exact _fit_ \- was just waiting on the rack at Marks  & Spencer?”

Sherlock grabbed Greg's hand and forced it behind his neck, dragging his fingers across the inside of the collar, which, until that moment, he hadn’t realized was bare.

“So there’s no tag,” he said, pulling his fingers away. “How did you know that, anyway? The finish on the button holes? The line of the collar?”

“I’d know Pierre’s work anywhere,” Sherlock said enigmatically, reaching up to smooth his own collar. “It’s too bad we were out so late, Lestrade. Had he picked you up any earlier, you might have gotten an entire suit out of it.”

Greg looked at Sherlock, really looked at him. Bloody good looking, yes. But there were a lot of street kids who were equally pretty. The thing that never seemed to make sense to him about Sherlock was the clothes. Unlike most druggies, Sherlock was always dressed. As comfortable in a silk suit as most bums were in cargo pants.

He experienced an odd sense of deja vu, followed by an uncomfortable churning deep in his gut.

“Speaking from personal experience?” he asked, not really wanting to know the answer.

“Yes, actually,” Sherlock admitted.

Greg flinched.

Then, as if reading his mind, Sherlock drew back as if he’d been the one slapped. “Oh, God no.” He shook his head in denial. “Or at least not in the way that you think.”

“Not your lover, then?" Greg prodded, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. "Not an ex-?”

Sherlock made a sound of disgust and pulled his jacket around him as if he were trying to ward off an evil spirit. “Please, Lestrade, you must desist immediately before I lose my tea.”

“Then _who_ is he?” Greg asked again, leaning even closer. “Look, Sherlock, I really need to know.”

Sherlock perked up. “Is he in trouble?” 

“No.” Greg sighed. “Look, he’s a total stranger....”

“With whom you spent the night,” Sherlock pointed out.

“He had my phone and my badge, Sherlock,” Greg said, trying to come up with some excuse that made sense other than, I really want to know his name so I can see him again. “Do you realize that that’s a major security breach? I could lose my job over something like that - it’s bad enough that you had them, let alone that you gave them to someone else.”

Sherlock laughed; it was the one he used whenever he thought Anderson (or Greg) had done or said something idiotic. 

“One, when it comes to security, him having your phone - or your badge - is the least of your problems. Two, I hardly _gave_ them to anyone. And, three, the likelihood of you getting fired seems a bit thin now that you’re D.I.” Sherlock paused. “How did that happen, actually? Any ideas?” he asked. “Any inclination, whatsoever, that you were due for a promotion?"

Greg shook his head. “I need a name, Sherlock.”

“He _really_ didn’t tell you?”

Losing his patience, Greg snorted. “Even if he did, why would I believe anything he said given the circumstances?”

For a split second, Sherlock actually looked offended, though on whose behalf it wasn't clear. “Well, Detective Inspector Lestrade, I really must be going,” he said, once again straightening his jacket. 

“I’m relieved that your things were returned to you and that you seem no worse the wear for your...” He hesitated.  “...misadventures and that you made it back, for the most part...unmolested.” 

He paused to give Greg one last look, and then he turned to go.

“Wait a minute, Sherlock.” Greg grabbed his arm. “What about the murderer?” He leaned forward, feeling more desperate than he wanted to in that moment. “And what about the man in the car?”

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder. “He _really_ didn’t say?” he asked one corner of his mouth turned up indulgently.

“No,” Lestrade admitted. “He _really_ didn’t.”

“And you didn’t ask?”

“No, not really.”

“In some ways, _this_ is much more interesting than your murder, which, I am sorry to say, is quite as your forensic rat has described. It _was_ a toxin, but it wasn’t the gardener, as Donovan is about to come tell you.” 

Sherlock pulled his arm free and leaned closer still, until his lips were just a hairsbreadth away from Greg’s ear. “It was a lover - not a girlfriend nor even a boyfriend - but just some chance encounter. Funny how these things sometimes end, isn’t it, _Inspector_ Lestrade?”

Sherlock's eyes, dark with amusement, slid over Greg’s face as heavily as if he were touching him with fingertips, though they gave no indication of what they saw there.

“Find the surveillance tapes from the club that matches the stamp on his wrist and you’ll have his man.”

“And what about _my_ man?” Greg asked, voice pitched low, because true to Sherlock’s word, Donovan was barreling across the scene, a woman on a mission.

“That seems to be a worthy mystery in and of itself, Inspector.” Then, without so much as a by your leave, Sherlock took off at a run, leaving Greg with his mouth open and no closer than he’d been before to finding out just what the hell had happened - never mind with whom.

“Oh Inspector!” Sherlock called right before he turned the corner that would take him to the main road. “Don’t forget to call your mother!”

Greg raised his hands in confusion. “What?!”

But before he could follow and ask what the bloody hell his mum had to do with anything, Donovan had grabbed his shoulder, babbling something about the gardener. 

By the time he'd turned back, Sherlock was gone.

 

 

The Yard was pretty much deserted by the time Greg made it back to the pen. He worked his way toward his station on autopilot, shaking his head.

'Find the surveillance tapes from the club,' Sherlock had said. If only it had been that easy. While it was true that they’d been able to identify their perp, it hadn’t meant that they could find him. Nor that he’d surrender easily once they did. 

His stomach protested as he passed the vending machine without so much as a second look. Considering the last thing he’d had was a cup a coffee at My’s, also otherwise known as He Who Shall Not Be Named - at least until Greg learned different, the last thing he needed in his system was a bunch of processed sugar. No matter how appealing the thought. 

His days of living off fairy cakes and coffee were over. He needed real food.

Debating the relative merits of Chinese or Indian, he reached his desk, which, _assuming it really was his desk_ , was suspiciously devoid of its normal clutter, the stacks of files, and his usual assortment of pens and office supplies. Even the ashtray that he kept strictly for sentimental reasons after he (and the office) decided to go smoke-free - gone.

He pulled his chair out, only to find a small white envelope with NSY stamped on the corner and his name in uneven block letters scrawled across the front. It was a far cry from the fancy stationary and sloping script that had greeted him this morning.

He opened the envelope and pulled out a single piece of paper. He then dumped the remaining content - a single key - on the scratched wood surface. 

 

Greg, 

Sometimes the weight of bureaucracy moves with all of the speed of a glacier and sometimes with that of an avalanche. Luck was on your side. The big wigs upstairs moved me out and up and you over and in. Couldn’t believe it when I saw the movers today! It’s packed full of boxes - just how many closed cases were you working on, anyway? - but it’s yours. Congratulations, son.

Dave Wilson

 

Greg read the note once, and then read it again, before lying it on the desk and picking up the key to what he assumed was Wilson’s office - _his_ office. Greg laughed. His hands were shaking and while he couldn’t completely rule out the possibility of low blood sugar, he really thought it was more the events of the day.

The near mugging - hell, even the sex with a some posh bloke in his Westminster flat - aside, today had been one for the books. 

Between the shock of finding out that the man he assumed was a stranger had been in possession of his phone and his badge all along, his unexpected promotion, Sherlock (And why the hell would Sherlock tell him to call his mother anyway?), the case, the chase, and the booking, and, now, this, the key to everything that he had been working for? 

Even though Greg felt like his legs were just as likely to give out beneath him as they were to get him that last 14 steps between his old cubical and his new office, he grabbed and pocketed the note and made the effort.

He hesitated right outside the door. How many times had he knocked politely, waiting to be granted permission to enter? How many times had be burst through unannounced, protocol the last thing on his mind in lieu of doing the job he was meant to do? 

How many times had he dreamed of this very moment?

Taking in a deep breath, he slid the key into the lock, feeling the turn of it beneath his hand. But instead of entering, he leaned forward and rested his forehead on the the smooth wooden door. ‘He actually had a door!’

“Thank you,’ he whispered, to no one in particular. “Thank you.”

 

The office was a wreck. Wilson hadn’t been exaggerating. The movers had crammed all of the boxes in the narrow space between the desk and the glass wall - the same wall that when the shades were pulled, would afford him a level of privacy that he’d yet to experience in his adult working life.

Picking his way through the cardboard maze, Greg pulled out Wilson’s, no, _his_ chair from out behind the desk and threw himself into it with a resounding groan. He was exhausted. He was starving. 

But for all that he was literally running on fumes, he’d never felt better.

He’d made it. All he’d ever wanted was to be a D.I. And now, look at him; he’d _actually_ made it.

Maybe Sherlock was right. Maybe he should call his mum.

Digging out his phone, he started to dial the number from memory, but then stopped himself.

Though it was a good idea, why would Sherlock Holmes, of all people, remind him to do something nice for someone that Sherlock had never even met? Sherlock was antisocial at best, and like most addicts Greg knew, he rarely - if ever - bothered with things outside of his own narrowly defined selfish interests.

So why would he have specifically told Greg to call his mum? And why his mum, as opposed to his mum and dad? Or even just his dad?

“No way,” Greg muttered, trying to ignore the tingling at the base of his spine. “No bloody way.”

Hanging up without completing the call, Greg returned to the menu and went into his list of contacts. He scrolled down quickly through the As all the way to the Ls. 

Seeing his brother’s name, but not his parents’, he kept on scrolling. _Martin_ , _Meeks_ , _Merton_ , _Miller_ , _Mum and Dad_.... He took a deep breath and then hit the down arrow one more time and saw the one thing that he hadn’t really thought he’d find: _My_.

Not thinking it through, Greg hit the dial button. As he waited for the call to connect, he realized that he had no idea what he’d say even if the man picked up - or even what he’d _want_ to say.

The way he felt it could be anything from “What the fuck?!” to “Please come and get me.” Not sure he was ready to _hear_ whatever it was that was likely to fly out of his mouth, let alone to say it out loud, he cut the call after the first ring.

Trying not to second guess himself, Greg figured that given the fact that his number wasn’t blocked, My could bloody well call _him_ back if he wanted to talk. 

He fought the temptation to put his feet up on the desk, and instead swiveled until his back was to the door so he could rest his heels on the window sill overlooking the street. He was just considering calling him mum, for real this time, when he heard the distinctive chime of a distant elevator. 

Thinking it was probably just some other sucker - maybe even Donovan - he closed his eyes, and let his phone fall to his chest.

In the thirty seconds in which his lids had closed, he must have drifted off. Indeed, he had no idea how much time had passed when he was startled awake by what sounded suspiciously like a pipe gently striking metal. Either that, or the polite tapping of a silver tipped umbrella against a steel enforced doorframe.

Greg sat up and his phone slid onto the floor. The clatter of galvanized plastic cacophonous against the industrialized flooring. Instead of swiveling the chair back around, he jumped to his feet and turned to face the music.

Posh Bloke, My, aka Voldemort, stood silently in the doorway, umbrella in one hand, the other tucked discreetly behind his back

The snappy blue suit that he’d worn yesterday had been replaced by an equally dapper black with a narrow charcoal pinstripe. Looking a little more like a bureaucrat and a little less like a model, he’d finished the look with a simple white shirt, a burgundy tie and a tasteful gold tie tack.

Greg glanced down at himself, suddenly feeling scruffy - even in his semi-recently pressed suit. He returned his attention to the man in front of him, who shifted ever so slightly beneath his gaze.

Stepping away from the doorframe, he extended his left hand, producing a surprisingly crumpled white pastry bag. “You left this morning without your Danish,” he remarked. “May I?”

Not at _all_ what he was expecting, Greg barely managed to stifle a snort of laughter. “Yeah, sorry about that,” he returned, determined to be neither derailed nor charmed. “I was too busy finding my phone.” 

“Ah,” My stepped into the office without waiting for the invite and set the bag on the desk. “About that.” He pursed his lips and took a short breath. “I had hoped to be back before you left.”

“To say what?” Greg countered.

“It really was my intention to give you your things before the circumstances....” He cleared his throat delicately. “...accelerated to the point where to do so seemed imprudent.”

Greg shook his head, not sure what he was feeling or even what he should be feeling. Though if the warm pull in his belly was anything to go by, he knew what he wished he was feeling.

Willing himself not to get distracted, he literally had to bite his lip.

“So you’re saying that you had them all along?” he pressed. “That’s why you didn’t need to ask my name? Because you had my whole life in your back pocket already?”

My remained silent.

“With all of your public school manners, you didn’t once think to say, ‘Oh, by the way, I know everything about you?’” Greg blew out an exasperated breath. “Who the hell are you anyway?”

“My name _is_ My,” he answered stiffly. “Or at least that is the name that I used when I was at school.”

“Did you really go to Cambridge?” Greg asked, deciding to change tacks before circling back around.

“Yes, I finished degrees in International Politics, Political Science, and Philosophy. I also became fluent in a number of languages.”

Thinking about his own time served in Polytechnic, Greg was sorry he asked. “So that’s the name you _used_ , what’s your real name?”

“Mycroft.”

“Mycroft?” Greg almost laughed. No wonder the guy had shortened it. “That’s it?”

“Is it that important to you?” My asked. 

Greg’s answer was cut off by the sound of his own stomach grumbling. He glanced over the danish, then back to My.

“I need food,” he announced. “Thank you for the thought, but I need real food. I think if I ate that I’d be sick actually. It’s been one of those days and given that the last thing in my stomach was some of your excellent French Roast, I’m overdue. So, if we’re done here, _Mycroft_....”

“Well,” My cleared his throat and took a step forward. “I do happen to have a light supper waiting at home if you’d care to join me.”

Greg blinked. “Seriously?” He walked around the side of the desk until they were only inches apart. “You won’t even tell me your last name and yet you’re asking me back to yours for supper?”

My grinned, and just like that, all of the stuffiness that had been shrouding him since Greg had first seen him standing in the doorway disappeared. All within the space of a second, he looked ten years younger, and much more like the man who had sucked Greg’s brain out through this dick and less like some dangerous creep with a power trip. 

“Actually, supper is merely a lure,” he admitted. “I would much rather ask you back to mine and beg you to allow me to do wicked things to your body.”

The sound of the word “wicked” coming out of that mouth, and the idea that this man would beg Greg to anything - let alone to do things to his body - went straight to his cock, overriding any objections that his big brain still had about names, motives. Hell, even about Sherlock....

“Wicked?” he asked instead, taking one step forward until they could feel each other’s breath.

“Yes,” My answered, threading his fingers into Greg’s hair and pulling him into a semblance of a kiss. “Truly, truly wicked.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't check how many other stories there were out there with this particular title, though perhaps I should have! We'll see if I feel called to change it, but now, it stays.


End file.
